Chapter 1
After sixty-four years I was about to crack my first safe. Or, at least give it my best shot. I hoped I was a natural. I should be, if a name has any influence. My grandfather, Fredrick Martin, had insisted my father, Franklin, name me Fred. My full name is Jimmy Fred Martin. I was named after actor Jimmy Hanley who played Fred Martin in the 1954 movie, Radio Cab Murder. He was used by the police to go undercover to help catch a gang of safe robbers.
I parked my borrowed truck behind Julia Street United Methodist Church and walked with my bag of tools to the back door of the Whitman House at 200 Thomas Avenue. Edward Fenns Whitman, a businessman, served as Boaz’s first mayor in 1896. In 1924, he built this brick Craftsman-style home that had been designed by prominent Birmingham architect William Leslie Welton. Many locals, mostly grandchildren of Whitman’s generation, called it the Hunt House after Dr. Marston T. Hunt who lived here after Whitman and family died or moved away. I vividly remembered Dr. Hunt as the Boaz High School football team doctor who conducted my first rectal exam during the summer of 1971, in his office across the street.
The current occupants, Elton and Rebecca Rawlins, are away on vacation, probably enjoying a quiet and star-lite night at Gulf Shores. It’s taken nearly a year for my stars to align and cast the perfect opportunity to start a part-time job. Tonight, it is pouring rain and most everyone who would brave the streets are at Boaz High School being entertained by the Drama Club’s presentation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
I was thankful for the protection provided by the back veranda. It gave me a respite from the downpour. The sole light above the back door revealed the needed contents of the side pouch of my leather bag. In less than two minutes I was in the house and had disabled the security system. The code was provided by my silent partner, Noah Waters (yes, that’s his real name), who owns Sand Mountain Security Systems, often referred to by commenters on his Facebook Page as Ark-Saved.
If it weren’t for my grandfather I wouldn’t be here today. He was a safe cracker of sorts. He worked for over sixty years at the Mosler Safe Company in Cincinnati, Ohio. Although I grew up in Boaz, I spent several weeks every summer from the time I was six or seven with Papa and Mama Martin in their large Victorian home on Mt. Adams perched high on one of Cincinnati’s seven hills. In 1972, a month after I graduated from Boaz High School, and during my regular summer-time visit, my grandfather had a heart attack and thought he was dying. It was during that time he had given me a box full of black journals he had created over the sixty years he was chief accountant at Mosler. The journals contained the make, model, and serial number of every safe his company had manufactured and sold during his long tenure.
I found the safe behind a hidden door in the library. It stood 52 inches tall, was 22 inches wide, and 27 inches deep, and weighed in, according to Granddad, at a little over five hundred pounds. The safe was right where it was supposed to be, and right where it had been since Mr. Whitman had purchased it in 1924. Not only was I lucky to have Granddad’s black journals, but I was equally thankful for my employer, Alfa Insurance Company.
My job as an insurance agent provided helpful information, especially for my new part-time job. From working with and insuring Elton and Rebecca, I had learned they possessed a valuable collection of coins and jewelry. Their homeowner’s policy also insured the safe. I was probably only a handful of people who knew that Mr. Whitman had left the Model T20 Mosler safe, serial number 52039, when he sold the house to Dr. Marston Hunt, and his heirs, in turn, did the same thing, when they sold the beautiful, historically registered home in 2007 to Elton and Rebecca Rawlins. Some things are simply too heavy to move.
Cracking the safe was easy. It helped having the combination. Although Alfa didn’t require it, I had told my clients that sharing the information might prove helpful in the event of an emergency. Now, it seemed surprising they had been so easy to convince. Even if they had changed the combination I had come prepared to dispossess my clients of their valuables. One of my favorite memories was from my summertime visit with my grandparents in 1970. That summer, Granddad showed me how to use a torch to cut a hole in the back of a safe, one big enough to reach in with a long screwdriver and remove two screws from the plate that held the locking mechanism in place. No combination was required from this side. With one flip of a tumbler bar, the entire lock-set would fall inside the safe and the front door would slide open without resistance. Having the combination saved me over an hour. Another thing I was extremely thankful for.
The most valuable jewelry was two ruby teardrop pendants and one pear-shaped ruby lever-back drop earring. Alfa insured these three items for a total of sixty-thousand dollars. The Rawlins collection of St. Gaudens Double Eagles and Liberty Dollars was extensive; thirty-three coins in all. Although Elton had requested a million dollars in coverage, Alfa had capped its exposure to half that amount.
After placing the jewelry and coins in the center pouch of my bag, I took a few minutes and explored the contents of an accordion-style folder standing along the left side of the safe. Inside were several newspaper clippings and a host of original deeds. Also, there was a mauve-colored envelope with Rebecca’s name hand-printed on the outside. I quickly opened the unsealed envelope, pulled out a single sheet of similarly-colored paper, and read the extremely short message. “Dear Rebecca: Go forth and live your life for God. Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.” The letter was signed, “Pastor Randy.”
I could hear the rain storm subsiding, so I snapped a photo of the letter with my iPhone and reinserted the letter inside the envelope. I felt silly being so careful with the mauve-colored envelope and accordion file, especially since I was about to walk away with a small fortune in jewelry and coins. I couldn’t help but wonder what secret the former youth pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ held against Rebecca Rawlins. As I reset the alarm and relocked the back door, my mind, as it often did, offered a competing question. What if the Pastor had reneged on his promise? What if he had shared Rebecca’s secret?
My first safe-cracking adventure, so far at least, was an overwhelming success. The only mistake I had made, if you call it that, was continuing to wear my black, full-faced toboggan, all the way home. I parked inside my garage and was admiring my haul scattered out on my kitchen table when my iPhone vibrated in my pocket.
Chapter 2
“Room 201, second floor, all the way down the hall. On the left.” Ms. Gilbreath said guiding me to my post for today’s Career Day. I hadn’t been inside Boaz High School since I graduated in May 1972. I couldn’t believe Betsy Gilbreath was still working in the office. She seemed old forty-five years ago. She must be in her late eighties.
I walked up the stairs, down the long-crowded hallway buzzing with kids of all sizes and shapes. I found my destination and sat down at the front desk in a room of empty chairs. I was glad I was early and had a few minutes to regroup my thinking.
Last night after returning from 200 Thomas Avenue I had changed clothes and driven to the parking lot of the Sand Mountain Stockyard in Kilpatrick. Noah was waiting on me, sitting in his truck parked between two giant livestock haulers. We had divided another type of haul with him taking the coins. I kept the jewelry, not worried I had given my best friend since elementary school over ninety percent of the value. At 11:30 p.m., Noah had sent a text saying, “product delivered and secure.” He had driven to his storage unit in Hokes Bluff. I had made my delivery to a similar facility in Guntersville.
“Hey Uncle Fred.” The voice startled me back to current reality. It was Luke Sullivan my grand-nephew. My niece, Gabby, is the only daughter of my only sister, Deidre.
“Hi Luke. Are you looking for career advice?” It was the first thing that came to mind. He just smiled and said he already had his future fully planned.
“No, I think I’ll stick with being a fireman, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. Other than being a garbage truck driver when I was five.” The tall and lanky kid with curly blond hair and a face full of acne just stood beside Luke, totally expressionless.
“Good to see you. I forgot Career Day is for eleventh and twelfth graders.”
“Just one of a million stupid rules around this backwards town.” Luke was a good kid, with one younger sister. Gabby and Brad, her husband and Luke’s father, were good parents. Both had good, but demanding, jobs. When they weren’t working at their day jobs they were assisting with the youth group at First Baptist Church of Christ. Luke and Miranda, his sister, were usually within a stone’s throw no matter what the group was up to.
A wave of boys and girls came in the room a minute or so before 9:00 a.m. They were busy chatting and jostling each other. I asked Luke, “how are things with you? Still liking high school?”
He looked at his older peers and walked closer to me and farther away from the loud group. “Do you think we could talk sometime? Maybe today?”
“Sure thing. Anytime.” I was surprised Luke had approached me. I couldn’t remember a time he and I had ever really talked. Our relationship was defined by the routines of family get-to-gathers. Ever since I had moved back from Huntsville three years ago, Mother had made sure we ate with her and Dad at least once every week.
“What about after you get finished with Career Day?” Luke said, his face more serious now.
“Okay, that’ll work. I don’t have any appointments until this afternoon.”
“Can you meet in the gym around 10:30?” Luke asked.
“That’s perfect. I’m here until that time so it will be just a few minutes after. If that’s good with you.”
“See you then.” Luke and his lanky and listless friend turned and walked out into the hallway.
I spent the next ninety minutes with six groups of six to fifteen students, rotating in a new batch every fifteen minutes. Each meeting I followed the same outline. It was impossible to grab their attention and motivate them towards a career in insurance. Even though I explained to them the importance of insuring cars and homes for a small, monthly premium, while transferring the risk of loss to an insurance company. I tried to illustrate how the laws of probability, actuarial science it was called, but every single student either stared out the windows or at their cell phones. Only when I shared a personal story of how I would have been bankrupt if it hadn’t been for my health insurance policy when Susan got sick, did their eyes look my way.
Walking to the gym I couldn’t get Susan off my mind. She was my high school sweetheart and my wife for nearly forty years. Five years ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. After fifteen months of chemotherapy and radiation, she died, even though hundreds, maybe thousands, had been praying, virtually non-stop according to many. Nine months after she passed, I closed my law practice and moved back home to Boaz. I now had been an Alfa insurance agent for nearly two years.
I didn’t see Luke when I entered the gymnasium. I walked through the double-doors and onto the basketball court. “Up here.” Luke was sitting at the very top of the visitor’s side bleachers.
“This ought to be private.” I said after climbing more stairs than I had in years. “What’s on your mind Luke?”
“Tyler, my friend, you met him, has got me to thinking.” Luke said. I could tell he was troubled. He normally had a big smile on his face. Now, he was nearly frowning.
“The kid with you in Room 201?” I asked.
“Yea. He moved here from Chicago after Christmas. He’s pretty much a loner, like me.”
“I never thought of you as a loner. You always seem like the life of the party.”
“That’s mostly around family.”
“What’s Tyler got you to thinking about?” I asked.
“God, church, Christianity. He says all that’s a myth.”
“What do you think?” I wanted to tell him Tyler was right but thought better of it. I valued my relationship with my family, even though it was strained.
“It’s funny really. I’ve never thought about it. You probably know what I’m talking about. You grew up with Nanna and Papa. You had no choice but to believe as they do. I’ve been in church since I was born.”
“I agree. Living in Boaz is like living in a pond. You can’t help but get wet.” I kind of liked my analogy.
“I thought you might give me some insight. How to deal with Tyler’s opinions. I know you’ve abandoned your faith.” I was surprised Luke put it that way.
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“I’ve overheard Mom and Dad talking. They say, it’s usually after they’ve prayed for you, that you walked away from God after Aunt Susan died.”
“Well, they are not inaccurate. More particularly, I started questioning my beliefs when Susan was diagnosed. I was much like you said, fully immersed in God, the Bible, and the church. This changed when I finally realized that I had little proof that God existed. Susan’s death, she would die all over again if she heard me say this, was the real catalyst for my adventure.”
“What do you mean? Sounds like you went on a trip or a safari.” Luke said.
“That’s a good way to put it, especially your safari word. It has been like a hunt, a hunt for the truth.”
“I don’t have much time right now, but I’d like to hear about your adventure. Do you think you could share it with me, in detail?” Luke asked.
“I would like nothing better, but I have to be concerned about offending your mom and dad. I highly suspect they would figuratively shoot me if I expressed an opinion that conflicted with their beliefs.”
“No doubt, but if Christianity is true, shouldn’t it be able to withstand some questioning?” I was impressed with Luke. He sounded more intelligent than I had painted him.
“You have to promise me one thing.” I said.
“Okay.”
“You won’t tell your mom or dad. Even if y’all have a discussion and they ask you, ‘where are you hearing all of this?’ you promise you will keep me out of it. Agreed?” Even though it was difficult at family meals to listen as Mom or Dad or Sis or whoever was praying with pleas for good health and safe-keeping and a dozen other common requests, I didn’t want to start a controversy that I feared would never be resolved.
Luke pulled out his notebook from his backpack and asked me to write down my email address. “Is it okay if we communicate this way? I still want to meet but email might be more convenient and regular.”
“Works for me.”
Luke shook my hand and left. I had a sick feeling in my stomach that I had betrayed my family’s trust. But, I also knew that my decision to abandon my faith had been the best decision of my life. As I walked to my car, the question remained, “is it okay for me to express my beliefs, to those who have grown up with Jesus-talk pounded into their heads?” Deep down I felt the answer was yes, but I needed to carefully consider the ramifications.
Chapter 3
At 1:00 p.m., I met with Darryl Nelson, the assistant manager of Lowe’s in Guntersville. It was our third meeting and he finally pulled the trigger on a five hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy he was placing in a newly created trust for his wife.
After we finished, I started driving back to Boaz but turned around and headed north. I called Noah and caught him just returning from Huntsville. “Good timing. Meet me at Winzel’s.”
I suggested his office instead. I thought it best to keep our public appearances to a minimum. In the grand scheme of things, it probably didn’t matter. Noah and I had been best friends for over fifty years. We had played sports together starting in junior high and continued throughout high school, playing every sport during our senior year. Although we went our separate ways after high school we kept in touch several times per year. Ever since I moved back to Boaz in 2014, we had renewed our friendship with a vengeance.
“I was hoping you would call.” Noah said removing a large briefcase from the trunk of his car as I pulled beside him. Noah, much more than me, didn’t have one financial reason to be involved in our safe-cracking venture. It seemed everything he did turned to gold. He had started Sand Mountain Security Systems over ten years ago in Boaz. At the time Susan and I were dealing with her sickness, Noah was moving his business to Guntersville. He had purchased the corner lot across from the Hampton Inn on Highway 431. While we were growing up, Reid’s Restaurant did a booming business on this location. Noah had sold the highway frontage to Art Moss. It’s now, Chili’s of Guntersville. Noah’s office and warehouse are housed in a new building behind Chili’s. Noah said he made enough from selling the real estate frontage to pay for his move and his new facility.
“I was at Lowe’s.” He motioned me inside, through a small waiting room, down a hallway, and into his office.
“I bet those St. Gaudens are worth a fortune.” Noah didn’t waste any time. I knew we could talk openly. If there was anyone who was conscious of security issues it was Noah.
“All thirty-three of the coins are insured for half a million. Rawlins wanted a million on them. Alfa wouldn’t do it.”
“It’s silly we even care. The market could be anything by the time we unload them.” Noah said. Our idea had sprouted after Granddad had died in 1998. I sometimes think it was my fault he died. Even though he was nearly ninety-nine years old, he was in relatively good health when Susan and I went for our final visit Easter weekend. Again, it was his heart. After suffering the attack in 1972 he had recovered and continued to work for Mosler until 1980. Some way, over that Easter weekend, my grandfather must have known his time was short. He had insisted that Susan and I take home with us those boxes of black journals he had given me during the summer of 1972. Even though they were mine at that time, I had left them in the closet of the front bedroom I always slept in right next to the left-side turret on his and Mama Martin’s grand Victorian home.
“Whatever their value, I want them out of the country just like we’ve talked about.” I said.
“Mine and Lorie’s trip isn’t until October. They’ll be fine. Stop worrying. Oh, by the way, and not that I don’t trust you my brother, I assume you cleaned out the big bad Mosler?”
“Other than some deeds and a secret letter. I was hoping there might be an antique pistol or an original Bible manuscript. You know, something rare.”
“That would be a find. It’s my understanding the Bible doesn’t exist, I mean in its original form.” Noah said.
“Actually, it doesn’t exist in any form, other than its fictional model, but let’s not go there.”
“What about that letter? You said secret letter.”
I pulled my iPhone out of my coat pocket and opened my Photos. “Here, look, I snapped a picture.” I handed my phone across Noah’s desk.
Noah used his right thumb and index finger to expand the photo, so he could read it. Aloud. “‘Dear Rebecca: Go forth and live your life for God. Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.’ Who’s Pastor Randy?”
“I’m not sure but my guess is it’s Randy Miller. He was the youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ when I was growing up. You should remember him.” I said.
“Don’t forget, I didn’t go to your church. I was a Second Baptist conscription.”
“Funny. Randy Miller is Robert Miller’s grandfather.”
“Who is Robert Miller?”
“He’s the youth pastor now. Kind of funny or weird, something, that he’s trying to fill his grandfather’s shoes. From what I see and hear, especially from Gabby and Brad, he’s doing a great job. Assuming, you ignore the subject matter.” I said.
“Was Rebecca in Susan’s class?”
“No. She graduated in 1974, a year behind Susan.” I said.
“What’s the secret?” Noah asked.
“I don’t have a clue. But it must be pretty important for Rebecca to keep the letter all these years.” Noah handed me my phone and I looked again at the photo. I scrolled over the entire picture and saw it for the first time. In the lower right corner of the letter was hand-written, May 27, 1974. “Forty-three years. She’s kept this letter nearly half a century.”
Noah’s cell phone rang. “Yep. Oh shit. I forgot. See you in five minutes.”
“I take it you’re in trouble.” I said.
“That was Lorie. I’ve got to go. I’m late for our photo appointment. Church directory. Talk later.” Noah said, grabbing a necktie and a sports coat from a hall tree in the corner of his office. Noah was like so many men. Faithful to his church. Mostly, because it’s good for business, but also to please his wife.
I drove back to Boaz, dropped Darryl’s file off at the insurance office, and drove home. It was always good to see Dad working in his garden right across from my small front yard. It was a trade-off living in the original home my great-grandfather had built in 1896 when he and my great-grandmother had moved here from Lee County. I gave up quite a bit of privacy—which I dearly loved—in exchange for almost daily time with the best parents in the world. As I walked across the recently tilled soil to talk with Dad, I was thankful he and Mom lived halfway across the hundred-acre farm in what had, since my youth, been referred to as the main house.
Chapter 4
I wound up helping Dad plant four long rows of purple-hulled peas and set-out ten Big-Boy tomato plants. It was the first time in a year I had watched him get down on all fours. At eighty-eight years old he was still in remarkably good health, but his strength, stamina, and balance were waning.
Dad had grown up in Cincinnati. Frederick Martin, known as Papa or Papa Martin, Dad’s dad, had grown up at the Martin Mansion as it was called, helping his father and mother and eight brothers and sisters farm their hundred-acre tract. There were shades of many stories as to why Papa Martin had moved at age sixteen, north, first to Detroit and then to Cincinnati. To me, the most likely reason was he and my great-grandfather, Stonewall Lee Martin, had a falling out; Stonewall was like a thick stone wall, literally immovable, especially in his Christian beliefs. In 1928, Papa Martin married Mary Ruth Davis, a sophisticated woman from an old established Ohioan family. Dad was born in 1929 in Papa and Mama’s large Victorian home perched high on one of Cincinnati’s seven hills.
Dad’s experience growing up was almost identical to mine, except he came south every summer rather than north. Like me, he visited his grandparents. Dad always said he came in first place. He had missed only one summer coming to Alabama while he was growing up, after he turned six, and I had missed two summers. That’s where the similarities diverged. Even though Dad grew up a city boy, he loved the outdoors. It probably would have been different if he had grown up living in the country and having to farm. Dad and his grandfather, Papa Stone, spent nearly every waking minute of the two-week visits hoeing and harvesting vegetables from the garden, feeding the pigs and chickens, milking two cows, and fishing. Someway, the two of them had a connection that Papa Martin and the Stone Wall could never discover. Like Dad, my favorite spot was the three-acre pond, halfway between my little house and Martin Mansion.
Papa Martin had gone to work for Mosler in 1919, when he was only twenty years old. He had already completed a two-year accounting course which caught the eye of old man Mosler, the son of the founder. Like me, Dad met his future wife while in high school. He and Harriet Ann Parkland married in 1949. Neither went on to college and struggled for five years (refusing help from her wealthy family) until Dad decided in February 1954 to move, along with my thirteen-month-old sister, Deidre, and his pregnant wife, back home to live at Martin Mansion as Papa Stonewall lay dying.
Looking back, I had experienced the best of both worlds, country and city. Summertime in Cincinnati, and the rest of the year living on the same ground my great-grandfather Stonewall had purchased for $450.00 in 1896 and farmed until his death five months before I was born in August 1954.
Dad made me tag along with him back to Martin Mansion and to a grand supper prepared by the best cook I have ever known. Mother had the ability to make green beans taste like steak. I hated them, unless they were Mother’s. It seemed I was getting spoiled eating over half my supper time meals at the table built by Stonewall Lee Martin in 1896. Along with the beans, corn bread, and left-over ham from Sunday’s even grander lunch, Mom had fresh out-of-the-garden corn, peppers, onions, and tomatoes. The meal was heavenly. That was Dad’s description. His pre-meal prayer always ended the same, “Lord, thank you for this heavenly meal we are about to partake.” I was glad Mom was quiet. Normally, when it’s just the three of us, she had to say something about my loss of faith, even something so slight as, “Fred, you look tired. I wish you got more rest on Sunday’s. You know that’s what it was made for.”
It was after dark when I arrived at my four-room cabin. It was built as a log-cabin, but my great-grandfather had decided in 1953 it needed an upgrade. It was his last big job before he died. Re-framing the outer walls, adding insulation, and covering the studs with clap-board siding. Dad always believed his grandfather had some premonition that caused him to undertake such a project at age eighty-two. Maybe some way he knew my own journey and struggles would lead me back to my roots.
I changed out of my dusty gardening clothes and sat down in what used to be a bedroom before I converted it to my study and library. I booted up my desktop to check my work email. I was pleased to see that Darryl Nelson had asked whether Alfa dealt with annuities. I responded in the affirmative and told him I would call tomorrow with additional information.
I was just about to shut down my old Acer and go to the den for a little TV before going to bed when a Gmail notification flashed across my screen. I opened it. It was from Luke. I almost was afraid to read it, subconsciously believing my agreement to communicate with him over such a sensitive subject was akin to plotting an assassination of the president.
“Tyler said that if I had grown up in Indonesia or Turkey I would likely be a Muslim and believe that Allah was the one and only God. What do you think?”
I continued to ponder whether to renege on my promise. After five minutes my battle with family and tradition had lost. I was too much of an adherent of humanism and the quest for truth no matter where it lay to go back on my promise concerning such an important subject. It wasn’t like Luke was six years old. He was a bright young man, curious about life, deeply troubled over what he had always been taught. I typed out a short response: “Tyler is probably correct. I have read several articles on this subject. It seems to be basic common sense. A child is born with some basic instincts, like how to nurse from his mother’s breast, but the baby certainly doesn’t know anything about religion, politics, sports, you name it. I suppose it is nearly impossible for a child not to adopt the beliefs and practices of his parents, especially those who are loving and kind. In my own experience, it took a rather big jolt to spawn my first embryonic thought that I might have been misled. I’ll not share that story now, but it happened when I was about your age.” I clicked on ‘Send’ and shut down my computer.
I walked to the den and flipped on the TV. I couldn’t find anything interesting, so I turned it off and laid back in my recliner. All I could think about was my own story, the one I had not shared with Luke.
It was 1970. I had completed the tenth grade and was in Cincinnati at Papa and Mama Martin’s. He had just showed me how to remove the locking mechanism on an old Mosler. We were out in his garage. Mama brought us some lemonade and we all three sat down at an old dusty table. Mama soon got tired of hearing Papa rattle on about how he had acquired the safe that now had a ten inch by ten-inch hole cut out of its back. She left us and walked back to their house.
It was the one and only time Papa ever mentioned religion. He said he had come to believe that a safe was like a person’s heart. It was a place where we kept our innermost secrets. He shared how his first boss in the accounting department had told him how Gustave Mosler, one of the company’s original founders, had compared the safes his company built to Christianity. Both were virtually impenetrable. Both were made of time-tested materials. Layer upon layer of the materials that had kept lives and whole societies secure for centuries.
Papa hadn’t said it directly, but I sensed he someway had broken away from the faith of his father and family. He described how, over the years, he had become intrigued with the stories that bounced off the walls in the accounting department. Stories from all over the country from people who had either bought a Mosler safe, often without the combination, or who had discovered one behind a hidden wall. Papa said what really aroused his curiosity was the stories of the different ways folks had gained access to the locked away contents. He shared with me how, over time, he had analogized the physical safe to his father’s Christian beliefs, pondering what it would take to gain access to the very reason his father held on to the inerrant scripture. Papa said his father believed in Adam and Eve and the creation story, Noah’s flood, and Christ’s resurrection. It was one statement by Papa that made me think something, somehow, had gained access to his own heart, otherwise thought to be impenetrable. He had said, “if you can act as though you have never heard of Christianity while you are listening to a Southern Baptist Fundamentalist, questions will arise, such as, ‘how can the earth be only six thousand years old? You will start to question. Questioning everything is the secret to cracking a safe.”
Before those two weeks ended during the summer of 1970, I heard one other thing that probably changed my life. Mama said one afternoon while we were waiting for Papa to arrive home from work, “I think your grandfather would become a professional safecracker if he wasn’t afraid he’d get caught. He’s absolutely obsessed with the secrets people lock behind a combination.”
Now, starting to doze, I wish I had just one more afternoon with Papa Martin. I got up, walked to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and stared into the mirror. I wondered whether I would have the courage to tell him about last night’s adventure to 200 Thomas Avenue.
Chapter 5
Wednesday afternoon I headed to the Boaz Public Library. I was glad to be out of the office. Tuesday was my day, 8:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., to man the walk-in desk. I was one of five agents in the Boaz Alfa office. I had much rather be out in the field calling on existing clients and prospects than being stuck behind a desk.
My work life, now, was radically different than my first career. In January 1980, six months after graduating from the University of Alabama Law School, I had started work for King and Hart, P.C. in Huntsville. For the next thirty-four years I spent most of my time either at my desk or in court. There was no time I could really call my own. I resigned March 21, 2014, six months after another significant day in my life. Susan died of breast cancer September 18, 2013. During this period, I was virtually worthless. Most days I was at work but sat staring into space. The kind and generous Bart King and Jeff Hart would have probably let me grieve forever on their dime but finally the day came I knew I had to leave both my job and mine and Susan’s Huntsville home.
The Boaz Public Library was relatively new. A beautiful two-story colonial style building on Thomas Avenue had replaced the old and antiquated facility on South Main. Truly a treasure for such a small town like Boaz. The head librarian wasn’t so new. Nancy Frasier had inspired many a reader for nearly sixty years. She was now in her eighties and could still, from memory, on instant notice, relate what books were on her shelves. Other media was a different story, so the sweet and saintly Nancy referred me to Brenda Yates, the library’s electronic master.
In less than five minutes Brenda had me sitting before a microfiche machine and about a dozen boxes of Sand Mountain Reporter slides from the 1970’s in a dark room under the winding oak staircase. Ever since Sunday night I had not been able to get the mauve-colored letter secreted in the Rawlins’ safe out of my mind. A phone call yesterday to Noah had given me the direction I now pursued.
I started my search with the May 25, 1974 newspaper. The date hand-written on the bottom of the Rebecca Rawlins’ secret letter was May 27, 1974. I had checked. That was a Monday. I knew from my own life-long experience with Dad’s subscription, the Sand Mountain Reporter newspaper was published three times per week, including Saturday. I was glad the Library had the latest technology. Their microfiche machine was what was called search-capable. This allowed me to enter a query and the machine would direct me to an article, ad, or photo caption that included the best response to my question. I was out of luck. There were no responses or hits for any of my key words. I had used Rebecca, Rebecca Aldridge (Noah had told me her maiden name), and even Randy Miller (no kin to Susan as far as I knew).
It was 1:35 p.m. For the next three hours I looked backwards through every edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter, crossing over into 1973. I had just returned from a rabbit trail concerning the Boaz Christmas Parade held on Friday, December 7, 1973 when I entered ‘Rebecca Aldridge’ on the query line for the previous day’s newspaper. Her name was listed, along with half-a-dozen others, under a photo of a giant bonfire. Before reading the full caption or the article I assumed the event was related to a football game, a big pep-rally. Then, I realized the date seemed off for that.
I read the full article twice, a little surprised that I had never heard the story. Correctly, this time, I realized that I was a student living in Auburn, Alabama when the photo was taken, and the article was written. In current day terms the whole thing seemed rather silly. Rebecca and four of her high school classmates had been arrested for burning Bibles. The scene had taken place on the back side of the sorghum cane field next to Boaz High School. It was on school property. Halfway through my first reading I had assumed this was probably why the five had been arrested. This was not the case. After a slower and more methodical reading, it was clear the arrest had been made to protect the five from a near blood-thirsty mob.
The article didn’t explain exactly how things had gotten out of hand, nor how the community had known what the five were up to. The last line of the article quoted Randy Miller, youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ, who said, “a few hundred years ago witches were burned at the stake. These five young people better be glad the fine citizens of Boaz are giving them another chance to honor and glorify God.” I thought it was an odd statement especially after the reporter had used a long paragraph to describe how the Boaz Police had to threaten the use of Billy-clubs to nearly a dozen local men and women.
After reading and pondering the article I wanted to continue my search, but I was out of time. I had a 5:30 appointment with the new owner of Sand Mountain Tire and Muffler concerning medical insurance for his employees. I didn’t need to be late.
Chapter 6
It took nearly an hour with Cynthia Lang at Sand Mountain Tire. She was the new business manager and was determined to increase morale. I agreed with her that a comprehensive medical plan for the employees would help, especially if the company paid the monthly premiums.
I missed the fellowship meal but made it just in time for prayer meeting. Normally, at 5:30 p.m., I meet in the Church’s fellowship hall with Deidre and Ed and one or both of their children and spouses, and we share a spread of food almost as good as Mother’s.
To anyone who really knows me, now only Noah since Susan is gone, would think I was weird. Why did I continue to regularly attend church since long ago I had shed my belief in the supernatural? I thought prayer was a total waste of time. But, my comeback, other than it was simply a habit and a long-since expired duty owed to the faithful Susan, was always the same. I enjoyed the fellowship and feelings of belonging to a loving and caring family. Secondarily, it was a good place to network for business prospects. I almost laughed out loud when the thought that church was a good place to pick up women slithered alongside my business reason.
Maybe Noah knew me better than I knew myself. If he were sitting here on the back row with me as Pastor Caleb was updating the thirty or forty folks scattered across the center section of the main auditorium, he would argue it was time for me to move on with my life. It was time I started dating. He would contend that Susan, dead now for over four years, wouldn’t have a problem at all with me pursuing another woman, in fact, she would encourage it. Noah would be correct. Susan was all heart and soul, faithful to God, Jesus, and Christianity. To a fault. She was the best I knew at picking out the good parts of the Bible and emulating them to a tee.
I heard Pastor Caleb give an update on how Eugene Lackey, the Boaz High School basketball coach with cancer, was doing. My mind skimmed past the Pastor’s words and focused, along with my eyes, on Connie Stewart. From where I was sitting I could make out a part of her right-side profile. For some reason she was a subject Deidre had focused on during our church meal last Wednesday night. Deidre, and no one else as far as she knew, had a clue why the still-gorgeous Connie never married. I had my own opinion. I had dated her one time during the late Fall of my junior year, with my little sis to blame. To me, Connie was sophisticated and stuck up. She simply never found anybody she though worthy of her time and attention. I figured she still grouped me with the peasant clan.
I was equivocating between thoughts of Connie teaching high school English for probably forty years and whether she wore a two-piece bathing suit in her private swimming pool when I heard Pastor Caleb say “Elton Rawlins.” Immediately, my attention focused forward. Caleb continued, “we don’t know exactly what happened. Rebecca was apparently driving. She wasn’t hurt. Elton may not make it. He is in surgery now.”
During his prayer for Elton, Pastor Caleb asked God to bless the Foley, Alabama surgeons who were working to save “our Deacon’s life.” My mind put the pieces together. Rebecca and Elton were returning home from Gulf Shores and had a wreck. I almost lost my supper thinking how much pain Rebecca was probably experiencing and my responsibility for adding to that when she got home and discovered her home had been burglarized, although that news might not be instant since the only sign of an intrusion would be the missing coins and jewelry.
After another forty-five minutes of testimonies and prayers for everything from missionaries in Africa, to traveling mercies for the Keenagers adventure to Ken Ham’s Ark Encounter in Williamstown, Kentucky, I slipped out the rear entrance to the auditorium. I walked across the vestibule and down the long hall to the rear of the church leading to the parking lot. I was about to get in my car when I heard, “Uncle Fred.” I turned, and it was Luke walking with a large group of young people back toward the church basement. They were coming from the newly completed amphitheater the church had built, alongside a sand-filled volleyball court. I raised my hand and waved. He said, “thanks,” and continued walking beside Tyler. I guessed he liked the fellowship as much as I did.
When I arrived home, I booted up my computer to see if Tina Graves had sent me the birth dates for her six grandchildren. I had met her yesterday when she had walked in the Alfa office inquiring about setting up a financial plan for her son’s children. As promised, she had sent the requested information. I spent an hour preparing life insurance illustrations and was drafting a cover letter when I received a Gmail notification that I had received a message from Luke. This was quickly evolving into a routine.
Once again, Luke started with something he had heard. “Tyler said that Brother Robert speaks as though the Gospels are historical and eyewitness accounts of Jesus and His ministry. According to Tyler, that’s simply not true. Uncle Fred, what do you think?”
I wanted to tell Luke that it didn’t matter what I thought, that he would have to make up his own mind. That was not what I did. I was too tired to go into a lot of depth. Luke’s question was a good one. It made me want to meet and get to know Tyler. I’d love to know his background and how he had come to learn so much as a young teenager.
I shared with Luke that most Bible scholars claim the book of Mark was the first of the four Gospels, with it being written around 65 or 70 of the Common Era (CE). Matthew and Luke were composed, independently of one another, sometime in the 80s or 90s. There was some disagreement as to the Gospel of John, but most agreeing it was written between the year 100 and the year 120 CE.
I told Luke that none of the Gospels were written by the named person. They were simply later-added titles. The man named Mark in the Gospels did not write the book named Mark, and so on. It was the same with all four of the Gospels with the likely authors being one or more well-educated Greek scholars.
As to eyewitnesses, I shared with Luke that it was very unlikely the authors interviewed anyone who had known Jesus (who allegedly died around the year 30 CE) since average life expectancy during the first century was most likely half of what we experience today. I admitted that it was certainly possible for the Gospel authors to have talked with people who had heard stories that had been passed down from generation to generation but explained how unreliable such accountings typically were.
I ended my email to Luke with a question. “Why don’t you ponder the following: how did the Gospel writers know what Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane since he was all alone?” I asked him to read the passage from Mark 14:32-42. I then asked him to ponder two reasons that I had heard often given for this seeming dilemma. The most often cited reason was that the Holy Spirit told the authors what Jesus had said. The second reason was that after Jesus was resurrected and before his ascension he spent time with his disciples and told them the contents of some of his prayers and conversations that had occurred out of their earshot. I assumed, maybe hoped, Luke would assess these reasons the way I did. I believed they were simply a guess. A guess wholly unsupported by the evidence.
In closing, I relayed to Luke that my ultimate decision to walk away from the Christian religion did not occur instantly, that it was a multi-year journey. I encouraged him, if he was serious about learning what I described as ‘the other side,’ to become like a heat-seeking missile and go after the truth with a vengeance, reading everything he could. I suggested he try to get a hold of Richard Dawkins’ book, The God Delusion, offering my assistance if he couldn’t find a copy.
Before going to sleep I wondered how Elton Rawlin’s surgery had turned out.
Chapter 7
It was our third meeting. Pastor Caleb said he liked to keep business within the family as much as possible. He was referring to his church family. I was glad I was the most active life insurance agent who was also a member of First Baptist Church of Christ.
Caleb and his wife Tabitha and their twin boys, Matthew and Michael, were relatively new to the area. They had moved to Boaz a few months ago for Caleb to shepherd this nearly one-hundred twenty-year-old church. He had spent the past ten years as lead pastor at First Baptist Church of Prattville, Alabama.
Caleb was the first pastor in the church’s history whose last name was not Tillman. I had learned from reading Lucille Wright’s, A Short History of Boaz Churches, there had been six Tillman’s who had pastored the church since its founding in 1892. The most recent, Warren Tillman, had been killed in a home invasion less than a year ago. From what I had heard, if it hadn’t been for some serious legal troubles for Walter and Wade Tillman, Warren’s grandfather and father, the church would have continued with the family name as its senior pastor. Many in the church had breathed a breath of fresh air when Caleb was called. I think it was probably because he was a Boaz native that tipped the scales in his favor. He was a 1990 graduate of Boaz High School and had grown up here at First Baptist.
Today, Pastor Caleb and I were finalizing the paperwork required to hopefully secure him a million-dollar life insurance policy. His purpose was to provide financial security to his family in the event of his death. I didn’t expect any issues with underwriting since Caleb appeared in good health and had steady employment. I had brought in attorney Trevor Nixon to address Caleb’s legal questions. Although I was still a licensed attorney I thought it best to wear only my life insurance agent hat. Trevor had drafted a Revocable Life Insurance Trust to own and control Caleb’s policy.
We met in a small conference room beside Caleb’s office on the third floor. After he signed the life insurance application I slid over to him a checklist that Alfa strongly encouraged its agents to give to each of their clients. It was titled, “The Don’t Forget Checklist.” I said, “I encourage you to read and implement each of these.”
Caleb laid his pen down and scanned the list. “Number three recommends I discuss my estate plan with my family. I’ve done that. Number four talks about keeping my documents in a secure and accessible location known to my executor and trustee, since I am establishing a trust. Tabitha wants us to rent a safety deposit box.”
“That’s a good idea. I wish I could convince a lot of my other clients to do that. It seems most of them just put their important papers in a desk drawer. This could cause a lot of grief to survivors, especially if there were a fire and the documents were destroyed. Wills and trusts turned to ashes aren’t much help.” I said.
“I’m not going to make that mistake. The church has an old safe down in the basement. I talked with Elton Rawlins, bless his heart, before he and Rebecca left for their Gulf Shores trip. He said the only problem was as far as he knew, the church had lost the combination. I hope to have that solved. Yesterday, I asked Betty Tillman if she would look through her late husband’s things, or maybe write her imprisoned son Wade and ask if he knew the safe’s combination.”
“Sounds like it might be simpler just to rent a box at the bank, like Tabitha suggested.” I said.
“You’re probably right but there is just something about those old safes. It’s like they have a mind, maybe even a heart. I guess I’m hoping me and the old Mosler can have a long conversation with it unloading a ton of memories.”
I just looked at Caleb as he shared how he loved history and wanted to know everything he could about the many roads our church had traveled over its long and honorable history.
I let him talk for thirty more minutes before I invented a meeting I had back at the office. Pastor Caleb was certainly an interesting character but what intrigued me most of all was his mentioning the church owned a Mosler safe. I made a mental note to review Papa Martin’s journals when I arrived home later tonight.
After spending a couple of hours in the office responding to phone messages, I drove to Mom and Dad’s. For three weeks now, she had hosted a family reunion of sorts. It wasn’t unusual for Deidre to join us three on a Thursday night for dinner, but once again she brought not only Ed, but their two children and their families.
After another fantastic meal by Mother everyone left except for Deidre. Mom made Dad help her clean up the kitchen while Deidre and I sat out on the screened-in back porch. I took advantage of this opportunity and asked her if she remembered anything about the 1973 Bible burning. For some reason, I couldn’t get that visual image out of my mind.
“Have you heard how Elton Rawlins is doing?” I thought I would ease indirectly into my chosen subject.
“He’s hanging on by a thread from what I hear. The surgery, from all accounts, was successful in stopping the internal bleeding but he’s still in very serious condition.” Deidre didn’t say where she had received her news.
“I bet this is very difficult on his wife.”
“It is. Rebecca said the doctors are coordinating with UAB doctors to get Elton transferred to Birmingham.”
“You’ve talked with Elton’s wife?” I asked.
“Through Facebook, Messenger.” I started to call her but knew she was probably bombarded with phone interruptions. I’m going to see her just as soon as they are in Birmingham.”
“I take it you two are still friends. You two graduated together, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Other than Ed, she is one of my best friends. She’s a remarkable woman, especially for what she’s been through.” Deidre said.
“It’s funny we’re talking about her. I ran across an old photo the other day at the library. I think it was taken in December 1973. Do you remember anything about Rebecca and a Bible-burning bonfire?”
“Gosh, there’s a picture of that? I’m surprised there is even a single ash remaining of that horrible night.”
“Tell me about it. When I saw the photo, I realized I had never heard about it since Susan and I were already living in Auburn.”
“I’m not sure what exactly triggered Rebecca and four of our classmates to rebel. But, they started giving Brother Randy, you know, youth pastor Randy, hell on wheels.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m cloudy on a lot of the details but it seems there had been a guy from Chicago who had lived in Boaz for a while. He, I can’t remember his name, was an atheist. He was in the eleventh grade when Rebecca and I were in the ninth. Anyway, apparently, he had some influence on a few people. Rebecca and her gang kept confronting Pastor Randy and basically arguing the Bible was made-up, you know what.”
“So, according to the photo, Rebecca and her friends burned their Bibles?” I asked.
“If my faith hadn’t been so strong I probably would have gone along with her. Anyway, things turned out for the good. All five of the culprits wound up returning to the fold. I guess they realized the error of their ways. I think Brother Randy and a few of the deacons took a real interest in the wayward teenagers.”
“That’s all you remember?” I asked.
“Yea, pretty much.”
“You said, or I thought you indicated, Rebecca had experienced a lot of hardships. Were you talking about the Bible-burning episode or something else?”
“Since we graduated, Rebecca has had a lot of bad luck. That’s not right. In truth, God had to take her through some tough lessons. She’s lost two husbands, one child, and both parents.”
“All lost to sickness? God inspired?”
“Don’t go there. No, I guess that’s what made it even harder for her. Car wrecks, a house fire, and an unsolved murder. Tragedy with a capital T.” Deidre said making me wonder how on earth one person could overcome such losses. It had been four years since I lost my dear Susan, and many days I could barely go. I couldn’t imagine losing most all my family, and especially if I lost them because of accidents and crime.
I was just about to ask Deidre a little more about how Brother Randy helped Rebecca back into the fold when Mom and Dad walked in. After fifteen minutes of Mom asking Deidre questions about life after death and at what point the believer received a new body, I excused myself indicating I had a phone call I had to make.
Chapter 8
I had just gotten up Saturday morning when my iPhone vibrated. It was Noah. I was thankful he had waited until nearly 8:30. He knew I liked to sleep later on the weekends, a habit formed after I had graduated from Boaz High School and moved away to Auburn University from Martin Mansion in 1972.
“Yep.” My standard greeting for my best friend.
“Elton Rawlins died late yesterday afternoon. I feel sorry for Rebecca but sure won’t shed any tears for our dear old friend.” Noah said. I could hear the faint sounds of a couple of different voices in the background.
“Don’t try to be funny. You know you suck at that.” Noah was the most serious person I had ever met. Even back in high school he was driven to succeed and rarely would relax or crack a joke.
“What happened? I heard he might be stable enough to transfer to UAB.”
“Apparently not. He died during the med flight. I heard he had a heart attack just before the helicopter landed. Rebecca saw him die.” I barely heard Noah while the background noise increased.
“Are you at work?” I asked.
“Yea, sorry. I’m with the general contractors doing a walk-through at the new UPS facility in Huntsville.”
“Must be nice working in the big leagues. One would think you wouldn’t need a part-time job.” I said, always better at comedy than Noah.
“Don’t go there. Remember, I don’t exist. I’m silent you know. That means I don’t have any job other than Waters Security.”
“Okay Mr. Serious.”
Noah ended his call and I poured a bowl of cereal and sat in my recliner. Elton Rawlins. I couldn’t help but speculate a connection between my uninvited visit to his home, and his death. I concluded that much stranger things happened every day. The reality was I didn’t know about them. Neither could Elton know about my visit.
After Noah told me Elton had died, I wanted to reminisce about how all this had gotten started, but cell phones weren’t the best way to discuss such delicate subjects. I made a mental note to ask Noah next week about his memory of how Elton and Doug Barber crawled under our skin during the three years we played high school football.
Elton Rawlins was a real estate broker with Rawlins Realty, a company his father had started after returning from World War I. The story goes that Ellijay Rawlins did it mainly on a whim to compete with Ericson Construction and Real Estate, a company, albeit under a slightly different name, that had been around since before the turn of the century. Ellijay and Benjamin Ericson were lifelong enemies. I didn’t know why. As to the other skin-crawler, Doug Barber was a pharmacist who operated his own company,
Both Elton and Doug were former Boaz High School football players, having graduated in the early 1960’s. They seemed to be good friends with Coach Hicks since he let them meet and interact with the players, especially in the team meetings before each game. But, it was their little speeches a couple of times each week after practice that aggravated Noah and me.
Each of them always started off reminding us that football builds character. Elton liked to repeat the phrase that was posted over Coach Hicks’ desk in the field house: “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Neither Noah or I had a beef with this. It was his virtual preaching that pissed off the both of us. It never failed he spoke as though God had a plan for each of our lives and our part was to be obedient. I will never forget how Doug often said that Jesus would give each of us our own Damascus Road experience like he had the Apostle Paul. But only if we were sincere and believed with all our hearts.
This may sound silly but by the end of our senior football season, during the Fall of 1971, both Noah and I had already seen the light. We were, as far as we knew, the only two on the entire team who fully believed Elton and Doug were the most deluded men in Boaz. Unbeknown to them, the trials and tribulations of football, including enduring their routine preaching, had spawned a life-goal for Noah and me.
Over the years, life’s pressures and priorities had evolved. It wasn’t until I had carefully explored Papa Martin’s black journals in 1999 and discovered both Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber owned a Mosler safe, that I had introduced a foggy idea to my best friend. But, it wasn’t until nearly eighteen years later that we had acted. Even though the Rawlins burglary (and the yet to be executed Barber burglary) was intended to rattle the cage of the two men who had gotten under the skin of two naive teenage boys, at no time had we contemplated (or desired) physical harm to anyone. The only concession I made to myself was that Elton’s driving, his auto accident, had nothing to do with my criminality. Especially, since he had no way of knowing his safe had already been cracked.
Hearing the news of Elton’s death was troubling but it still, strangely, gave me some consolation. I think it was my memory of how damned certain Elton was some forty-five years ago. He had a way of twisting everything into the Master Plan, Master meaning God Almighty. I recalled how he shared with the team after the tragic death of one of our teammates. The young man, Terry, had been arrested over the prior weekend for something, and committed suicide by hanging while still in his jail cell. The wisdom of cocky Elton revealed that Terry’s death was all in accordance with God’s plan and was intended to teach us a lesson. I always hated when he said that “we see through a glass darkly and don’t always know God’s reasons, but the Master does. He is mysterious to us, but we can trust that he always acts in our best interest.”
I nearly poured the remaining milk in my cereal bowl into my lap when I wondered how clearly old Elton was seeing now.
Chapter 9
Sunday, Pastor Caleb ended the morning service with a long prayer for Elton Rawlins. It was almost like the pastor was conducting the actual funeral even though it wasn’t scheduled until Tuesday. His final statement got my attention: “And Lord, we ask that you bathe Miss Minnie with your grace that she might find comfort and peace during these dark days.” I made a mental note to find out who Miss Minnie was.
Lunch at Mom and Dad’s on Sunday’s was almost mandatory. From what I hear, before I moved back to Boaz in March 2014, this rule was more flexible. I believe Mother thought there was safety and power in large numbers. With all her family, except me, real Bible thumpers, she subtly manipulated the makings of a mini-revival around Papa Stonewall’s giant dining room table shortly after noon every Sabbath. One thing that wasn’t flexible was the seating arrangements. This had long ago been established, while Susan was alive. We drove from Huntsville for the grand gathering at least half a dozen times per year. The lineup further refined itself as soon as the four grandchildren were old enough to feed themselves. Susan’s chair, across from me and besides Dad, continued to remain unfilled until, as Mom hoped, I would eventually remarry.
After everyone was seated and Dad blessed the food and our bodies, Luke, who was seated to my left (because of Mom’s novel seating chart) grabbed a hot biscuit from the plate in front of him and then popped a question. “Brother Robert told the group this morning that the universe is finely tuned by God for us humans; what do you think Grandmama?” I was glad he hadn’t directed the question to me.
I guess Deidre couldn’t resist. “Luke, pass the bread down this way for your mom and dad. As to your question, the Bible is clear. God created man and woman in His image. This would have to mean he first created a world that was just right for us.”
I filled my plate with potato salad, baked ham, black-eyed peas, and a host of raw vegetables including tomatoes, peppers, and onions. I had learned not to offer an opinion unless I was pinned to the wall. I think all the adults, other than Mom, had learned to bypass my street when they were seeking Bible truths.
“I’ve read that just a tiny change in the distance between the earth and the sun would kill us all. If it were a little farther away, we would freeze to death. If it were a little closer, we would fry.” Ed added.
“Pass the biscuits back this way sis.” I sometimes was able to distance me and the rest of us from potentially explosive subjects. But today my power lay dormant.
Luke turned and looked toward me and said, “what do you think Uncle Fred?”
I had to say something. “I’ve never thought about it much, but I did read or hear this analogy. If you think of a standard two thousand square foot house as the universe as we know it, the earth would be represented as a grain of sand over in one corner of the den. I’m really not sure how to square that with the Bible, or why 99.99% of the house couldn’t support a flea.”
It surprised me that no one followed up on my opinion, especially if they caught my intent that God must be small himself if he is like us humans.
Maybe it was Dad’s way of dulling the edges. He interjected, “Deidre, I assume you’ll be going to Elton’s funeral?” I took it that he was asking her and not simply making a statement.
“I am. Rebecca seems to be doing well, but I don’t want her to ever wonder why I wasn’t there. If nothing else, it will be interesting to see Jessica.”
“Whose Jessica?” Brad, Diedre’s son-in-law, asked.
“Elton’s first wife, and the mother of their two children.”
“Seems like only yesterday that you and Rebecca were inseparable, school, spend-the-night parties, and ball games.” Dad continued to interject.
“Don’t forget cheerleading and chasing the boys.” Ed added.
“How long have Rebecca and Elton been married?” I asked, knowing that he had to be twelve to fifteen years older than her, given the difference in mine and Elton’s ages.
“Three, maybe four years.” Deidre said.
“Why would a good-looking woman like Rebecca marry an old codger like Elton? She’s sexy enough to snare a man as young as me.” Ed said, trying to be funny or soliciting an affirmative response to stroke his ego.
“Oh boy, you’re older than Rebecca and she’d lock on to you. If she were desperate for a yardman.” Diedre said, smiling across the table at the pudgy Edward.
“Thanks, my love.”
Gabby seemed to be interested in her father’s question. “At least answer Dad. Did they marry because of love? I bet Rebecca is a gold-digger. I’ve heard Elton was loaded.”
“Don’t insult my best friend in all my high school years. Maybe, Elton was her knight in shining armor.” Deidre said, her voice trailing like she was dreaming. She was no longer smiling.
“If you ask me, Elton was pretty brave to marry a woman who had already murdered three husbands.” Ed offered, surprisingly rude for him.
“Murdered?” Mom said, taking a sip of coffee. I hated coffee at mealtimes, other than breakfast.
“Grand kids, Mr. Ed was only kidding. Rebecca, unfortunately, sadly, lost three husbands, all some sort of tragedy. Rebecca wouldn’t hurt a flee.” Deidre was trying to clean up Ed’s mess.
“Elton was a good man, probably loved Rebecca a great deal. But I suspect he also wanted to help her, take care of her. Maybe he was like your sis said,” Dad looked over at me. “He was her knight in shining armor.”
Sis apparently wanted to change the subject. I was glad she did. “Mom, do you know how old Miss Minnie is?” It was the question I had wanted to ask but had already forgotten.
“Let’s see. She’s at least ten years older than me. Her and Paul had Elton later in life. She was probably in her thirties. I’d say she’s getting close to a hundred.” Mom seemed confident in her reasoning. My own mother, at age eighteen, was valedictorian of her Boaz High School class, already married to Dad, and was eagerly anticipating going on to college in accounting. My own mother, now eighty-eight and fit as a fiddle.
“Where is she now? I doubt she lives alone.” I wanted to know more about the woman who had put up with Elton Rawlins for a good seventy-five years.
“Albertville Nursing Home. She’s been there for years. Parkinson’s. Fortunately, well, maybe not, she’s kept her mind. Now, she probably wishes otherwise.” Dad added.
“I bet she’s praising God right now for being so good to Elton, taking him on to paradise before her. She might even be a little jealous.” Mom said. I wondered at first whether she was serious. I looked at her carefully. She was serious. I almost made a snide remark, ‘old Elton is probably swindling some old woman out of her mansion.’
Instead, I remembered Dad’s knight in shining armor comment and decided to ask why Rebecca needed rescuing when a loud car horn blew. Mom got up and looked out the front window. “It’s a young man in a red car. Needs a good haircut.”
“Oh, that’s Tyler. We’re going fishing if that’s okay granddad.”
I was a little surprised that Tyler was driving by himself. He was just a ninth-grader like Luke. Maybe, he was already sixteen and had his driver’s license. If so, I guess he’s failed a grade or two.
“May I be excused?” Luke said, looking towards Dad.
The meal was great as usual and thankfully I had escaped the ever-reaching, long tentacles that seemed to surface from under and around Papa Stonewall’s giant table.
I drove down the half-mile narrow, hard-packed country lane to my house for a nap. For some traditions, I was forever thankful.
Chapter 10
I slept later than I had intended. I woke up just in time to get dressed for Training Union. I wasn’t sure that was still the name First Baptist Church of Christ called it. It had been called Life’s Way or Learning the Way, or something similar, at First Baptist Huntsville where Susan and I attended during the thirty-three years we lived in the Rocket City before she died.
Pastor Caleb had triggered my interest when he announced at the end of the morning service, and after the long prayer for Elton, that new classes were beginning tonight. I was barely listening when he stated the names and teachers of the first two classes. That changed when he said, “Doug Barber will be teaching a class on death.” I think the Pastor called it, “Dying with Dignity.” He encouraged everyone, especially those with aging parents, to attend this six-week series.
There were only seven or eight women in the R.P. Steed Sunday School room when I arrived. No men except for one. I took a seat along the back wall, behind everyone else, and looked to the man standing at the front behind a small podium. I hadn’t seen Doug Barber in years. He didn’t say anything to me when I walked in but kept looking at me, even to the point he was staring. “Are you Fred Martin?” He finally asked, still pouring his dark-circle eyes into my face, like he was trying to peer inside my brain.
“That’s me. Are you Doug Barber?” I honestly couldn’t see the younger Barber in the old man’s face. He looked to be as old as Dad but that couldn’t be. Dad was eighty-nine, and Doug would be no older than his mid-seventies.
“The one and only Douglas Barber. Sharp of mind and dull of body. It’s been a long time Fred.”
Just as I started to become a smart ass of sorts, like ask Doug if he was still working in the drug trade, I almost fell out of my chair. At first, for a few seconds, I didn’t recognize her. My mind quickly convinced me it was Connie Stewart. I would have easily and instantly recognized her profile, but I hadn’t seen her straight on, or face-to-face, in a lifetime, probably at her high school graduation. I reminded myself that was the last time I was at Boaz High School, other than the recent Career day, when I had gone to see Deidre Martin give her valedictorian speech.
Doug started the class after Connie sat down on the front row just in front of his podium. He spent the next thirty minutes touching on a broad list of topics, everything from the need for us all to start preparing for our own deaths, to developing a resource plan for our parents if they were still living. He also outlined the six sessions we would have together. The one that I certainly didn’t want to miss would provide the latest research on what happened to the body when we die. I thought I already knew everything I needed to know about that: basically, the body decomposed. The initial phase, I believe, is called rigor mortis.
Doug used the tired old phrase, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” to refer to the natural process of dying and the body returning to the earth. He referred to Genesis 3:19 as though he was quoting but I knew this wasn’t how the text read. I knew it by heart, Mother had quoted it a million times over the years: “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” No one said anything to Doug’s little slip and he ended his answer to his question by saying, “I’ve read that when a body is buried six feet down, without a coffin, in ordinary soil, an embalmed adult normally takes eight to twelve years to decompose to a skeleton.
Doug transitioned to what would have certainly perked Mother’s ears. He said, “we gain hope by hearing God’s plan to give us a new body in Heaven.” If for no other reason, I hoped to hear something that I could share with Mother. She was often intrigued or troubled over how and when this transformation would take place.
Doug dismissed class a few minutes early saying he had to run to the pharmacy. I suspected he continued his longtime practice of being available for his customers at any time. I think his business, Good Neighbor Pharmacy, had a tag line. Something like, “Always available for the sick, or never closed to the sick.”
After Doug left I got up and wasn’t far behind him when I heard my name called. I turned, and Connie Stewart was standing just outside the entrance to our classroom.
She repeated my name and said, “Don’t you work for Alfa Insurance Company?”
I told her that I did.
“Can I ask you a question?” She asked as I walked back towards her.
“Sure. I’ll try to answer it. I’m still fairly new to the insurance business so I’m still learning.” It was kind of an elementary statement. My thoughts were more, ‘how in the hell do you still look almost the same as you did when you graduated from high school?’ I didn’t ask that question and I forced myself to avoid staring into her deep blue eyes.
“I bet you’ve run into this. Mine and your parents are probably close to the same age. I’m interested in a long-term health care policy. I’ve been reading up on them and heard Alfa has one of the best and most cost-effective as far as premiums go.” Connie said, leaning back against the door frame. She hadn’t lost any of her height. I remembered her as a tall and lanky majorette in the Boaz band. I could see her coming off the football field, strutting her stuff, when me and the rest of the team were coming out of the field house after halftime. I could still see her perfectly shaped legs. And, at the time, she was only a sophomore.
“Alfa does have a great policy, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Underwriting won’t consider anyone over eighty and then, the rates are astronomical.” I was glad I had worked some in this market.
“No. Sorry. I wasn’t clear. I know I’ve waited too long to pursue a policy for Mom and Dad. I’m interested in one for myself.” Connie said.
“Okay. That’s a different story. I believe these type policies are still cost-effective for someone our age. Hopefully, you’ll be like your parents and live a very long time.” It was a miracle of sorts I could formulate a simple sentence and voice it without babbling. Why was I so shaken with such a simple conversation? Connie Stewart, the mysterious Connie Stewart, was to me like talking with the late Princess Dianna.
“You know I’m two years younger than you?” Connie said with a smile. I didn’t know if she was trying to make me feel bad by being older or if she was trying to lighten things up a little.
I don’t know how long I stood there reminiscing about the one and only date we had. I was a junior. Susan and I had been dating on and off for over a year, but we were taking a break, what she had said we needed to do to make sure we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. When I called Connie to ask her to go with me to a basketball game, I knew I was way out of my league. I was shocked that she had agreed. I can’t remember a thing we said during the entire basketball game. But, I do remember walking her to the back door of her house when I dropped her off. It was awkward at best. I wanted to end our first date with at least a kiss, any type of kiss would have been fine. As I had leaned in, I still remember it like it was yesterday, she had leaned out. That was the end of my days in the big league.
“I may be sixty-four years old, but I still have a pretty good memory. You were in Deidre’s class. Right?” I asked.
“And Rebecca’s. After church, I’m heading over there to see my very best friend.”
“She and Deidre were close. At one time, anyway.” I said.
“If you still have half a memory, you should recall how close the three of us were in high school. Have you forgotten Rebecca and Deidre sat behind us at the Albertville Coliseum during our one and only date?” I couldn’t believe she had remembered we had a date during high school.
“Don’t remind me. I actually don’t remember Rebecca and Deidre being there, but I could never forget that disastrous night.”
“Well thanks. I enjoyed it myself. I’m sorry it was so bad for you. But, I’m not surprised since you never called me back.”
“That didn’t come out right. I was the disaster. Quite frankly, you were too good for me. I was such a dunce. I was embarrassed. That’s why I never called you back. I couldn’t face the guaranteed rejection.” I said.
“People can be so dumb and so wrong. All you had to do was call. Anyway, we’re going to be late for the service. I always love hearing the Fishermen sing.” I had forgotten the popular group was scheduled for the entire worship hour.
Connie walked back into the R.P. Steed Sunday School room for her purse. I took the opportunity to stare at her rear and her naturally tanned legs. Her skin had always been dark and beautiful. Her bright flowered dress didn’t hide her figure. Sixty-two. It’s a miracle. She turned and almost caught me staring. I had to say something. “If you want I can help you find a long-term health care policy. But, I’ll need a little more information, things like daily benefit amounts you would want, deductibles, waiting periods, things like that.”
She was looking straight into my eyes, smiling, almost as though she had eyes in the back of her head. “I’ll give you a call in a few days. You work out of the Boaz office, right?”
“I do.” She walked on by me, kept smiling and was half way across the small auditorium headed towards the stairway, when she turned and said. “I’ll try not to forget to call you.” She seemed to always be smiling. I couldn’t hardly move from where I had stood frozen beside the Sunday School door. As I often do, I pondered what conversation I had just experienced. The sound of the Fishermen’s first song making its way down the stairwell was enough to bring me back to reality.
After the concert, I drove home with a whole new appreciation for Connie Stewart, and a determination that if she didn’t call me tomorrow, I would call her on Tuesday. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice in one lifetime, no disrespect meant towards my dear Susan.
The Pencil Driven Life 